Do As You Please
by ImagineBagginsDragon
Summary: A headache, a migraine, a blackout, and a murder most foul. Possession is a party, and Sean isn't the only guest.
1. Top of the Mornin'

_Dedicated to my sister, who loves this ship just as much as me, and my friend Fuzzy, who drew an absolutely amazing portrait of a BDSM lemon for me. BTW Gizmo isn't actually dead, it just fits into the story. also i updated because i realized there was an inconsistency with the location of the story. sorry! i just returned from a long hiatus_

Found on the as of yet unidentified corpse of the latest victim of the Irish Reaper(s).

 _His mental deterioration began with headaches, which evolved (or devolved) into migraines, then to blackouts and lost time. He couldn't understand why he would go to sleep in his green dinosaur pajamas on his mattress and wake fully clothed and God-knows-where in the woods. How could he understand?_

 _Something lurked in his skull besides his tormented brain, something much worse than a lost spider. So he paused his life and let doctors attempt to muck around in his head, and this is when the horrid events I must relate were spurred into action._

 _I must hurry; they left me to bleed out on an unforgiving and chilly concrete floor. They may never come back, but if they do, all you may find of me will be my eyes, ears, and tongue all half-submerged in a stagnant, old pool of blood._

 _If you are a police person, they're gone. The only evidence they leave or left behind is their destructive need for each other._

Jack started to notice something was amiss right after one of his dogs died.

When he was recording a game, an excruciating headache smashed into his skull like a semi truck. He was on his computer, getting ready to record, and was in the middle of practicing his intro; "Top of the mornin' to- ow, fuck," he shouted, ending with a mutter, and gently rubbed circles on his head.

He stood cautiously, not wanting to provoke the headache, and left his room for a few minutes, vision blurry from the intensity of the pain. He downed four generic Advil pills, and then lumbered back to his room. He chalked it up to being mournful for his dog. He plopped himself down in his computer chair, and cradled his skull in one hand while he skyped his best friend.

Mark answered after about two rings. "Hey, Sean! What's up with your head?" the other YouTuber commented, concerned. Jack peeked up through his spread fingers at the brightly lit screen at Mark's worried face.

"Got a headache that's worse than any fuckin' hangover I've ever had," he dryly commented, with a small grin. Mark was skeptical. "You don't normally get headaches, right? Is this because of Gizmo?"

The American had a certain glint in his eyes; Jack knew that look. "Why? Have yeh had headaches on this scale before?" Mark rubbed the back of his neck. "I may or may not have. It was right after Daniel died. It turned into blackouts, and I had my doctor look around in my head just to make sure I didn't have a brain tumor or something.

I got a brain scan, and there was nothing. I black out about once per day for about the same amount of time very day, and it's just kind of become normal," Mark explained.

"Why didn't yeh tell me beforehand?" Jack inquired, the pain spiking. "Fuck." Mark winced at Jack in reminiscence of his own migraines. "I've already had a brain scan, and I have meds that I take to make the blackouts as short as possible. I'm still not very sure if they help at all," Mark said, and shrugged.

Jack decided that a brain scan probably wouldn't work in his own case. "Is there somethin' I can do to not get blackouts?"

"I'd say get a psychologist or something, I dunno. I have one. It doesn't really help the blackouts, but we're working on narrowing it down into something that can be treated," Mark said, reaching for his green Reptar shirt.

"I'm going to go work out; I'll talk to you later, Jack, 'kay?" Mark looked at Jack for feedback. "Kick ass, Markimoo," Jack replied, grinning fully, ending the call.

He sat back in his chair, head throbbing and resting in an open-palmed hand. Then he sat up quickly, grimacing at a particularly painful pound in his head, and surfed the Internet in hopes of finding someone who could possibly help with his brain.

He sighed with relief as the pain meds kicked in, and the intensity decreased to a dull throb.

Finally, he found a psychologist in his area, running her own place. He wrote down the number and made coffee for himself (sans alcohol due to the intensity of his worse-than-a-hangover headache), and settled back into his chair so that he could play assorted video games. He wouldn't finish recording.

After falling asleep at his computer, Jack woke a few hours later and opened his eyes.

His gaze immediately rested on stairs, and he awakened himself fully to look upon the stairs leading to the attic. He was disoriented upon having just woken up, and he uttered noises of high-pitched confusion. "The fuck?"

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to plant himself on the floorboards unceremoniously and suddenly, and rounded the corner into the kitchen. He tiredly eyed the clock, which had read 10:17 am and now read 4:23 pm. He ran back up the stairs to gauge if he did anything in his sleep.

The attic was rearranged in a strange way; a table lay in the center and everything piled up around it except for a clear path directly to it.

Jack dug around in his pockets and located the note, which was thankfully still there.

He picked up a phone, wedged it between his shoulder and head, and skyped Mark again. Mark didn't answer, but a voice answered over the phone. "Hello?"


	2. The Waiting Game

Found in the latest victim of the California Reaper(s)' desk.

 _Patient is becoming frightened, and sleepwalking every night. He asked for camera surveillance today, to monitor him as he sleepwalks._

 _I'm not sure I can actually provide a camera with night vision, but I'll do my best._

 _I wonder if he's disturbed from the murders that are occurring in the area... I won't prescribe him anything._

 _The side effects can sometimes be worse than the actual problem._

* * *

"Hello?" Jack heard a voice from the receiver, decidedly female. He articulated his thoughts for a moment before he spoke.

"Is this Dr. O'Connor?" he asked, reviewing what had happened so that he'd be able to project his anxiety so that it sounded coherent and lucid. The last thing he wanted was to come off as crazy.

"Yes, this is she." "I'm Sean McLoughlin, and I would like to schedule an appointment," Jack said, quietly treading around his house and scanning for something amiss.

"Would you mind summarizing what's wrong for me, Sean?" she asked politely.

Jack felt slightly better about all of what was happening; at least this psychologist would listen without judgement.

"I'm not sure if it's related, but my dog Gizmo died recently, and I had a really nasty headache earlier today, so I took Advil and fell asleep at my desk on accident. When I woke up, I was on my stairs to the attic, were I had moved everythin' so that a table was in the middle." The words sounded sort of cryptic even as he spoke them.

"All right, thank you. This sounds a little worrisome, so I'll take lunch off to fit you into my schedule. Is the day after tomorrow okay?" she asked, and Jack frowned.

"I don't want teh inconvenience you, Dr. O'Connor," he replied, checking Skype for Mark again.

"Too late; you're on my calendar," she said, and Sean heard the smile in her voice. "By the way, Dr. O'Connor is a bit of a mouthful. Call me Séaghda, or any variation you feel like."

Jack grinned. "All right. I'll see yeh then." Mark finally answered.

"Hey Jackaboy. What's up?" He asked, looking a bit worried. "You called me like three times. Somethin' up?"

"I think so. I'm not sure what happened, but I passed out, and when I woke up my attic was rearranged to have a table in the middle," he reexplained.

Mark didn't look relieved. "That sort of happened to me too. Be careful, okay? Do you want me to come to Ireland to help you figure this out? I want to know what's going on with me too," he said.

Jack sighed. "Mark, you don't have to come over here." Truth be told, though, he wanted Mark there. He was confused and could've used the company.

"I just don't want you to feel like you can only relate to someone thousands of miles away. Even though that's what our fans do, I know where you live," Mark replied with a grin.

"Feckin' stalker," Jack teased, and looked around. "Not sure if I have coffee... shit. I need some feckin' good Irish coffee."

"Are you sure? It might make the headache worse," Mark cautioned.

"Good point. I'm gonna miss it," Jack replied with a sigh.

"Well, I'm gonna book my flight over to go get the Irish booty," Mark said. Jack grinned at the hilarity of the normalcy of his friend's response. "See yeh then, Mark."

The call ended, and Jack rose to check up on his stock of coffee.

He brewed himself some strong enough to wake the dead, and went around his house to investigate further.

In his room, his switchblade was gone. Jack considered that normal; the thing was small enough to hide beween cracks and never see the light of day.

In his first aid kit (he wouldn't have opened it, except that it was out of place) he found that the sewing needle and thread were gone.

Again, he wasn't too worried. He looked through his bountiful closet of alcoholic beverages to discover that some were missing.

Perhaps he'd drank when he sleepwalked; Sean chuckled at how much he fed into the Irish stereotype.

But then he discovered his matches were gone, and he started to feel a bit uneasy.

If it had just been the alcohol and switchblade, it wouldn't have been weird.

He eyed the clock; it had been about fifteen minutes from when he last checked it.

The flight would take about ten hours, and the drive would take about an hour and a half, but Mark would probably book the flight for the next day.

It was going to be a long 35 hours.

* * *

The demon prowled in its cranial cage, stretching and uttering low growls.

Until his host went to sleep or was emotionally weakened, he was forced to lie dormant, waiting to strike.

He could see through the eyes and hear the thoughts and feel everything; he just didn't have enough power yet.

The host was looking... looking for what?

The demon watched and listened through the eyes and ears.

One by one, everything he'd taken was noted, and the host began to suspect.

The demon uttered a growl of frustration when he felt a surge of uneasiness flow through the skull like wisps of wind.

However, perhaps this could be worked to his advantage. He struggled within his prison, howling with rage and scratching madly.

It would take a long time, but it was weakening against him.


	3. Ballad of Prey

Found in a postmortem stitched-up wound on the victim of the California Reaper(s).

 _Why is murder so tantalizing that we all fantasize about it at least once in our lifetimes?_

 _Why are people so compelled to quench lives of others?_

 _To answer this question, I ask another. How far are we willing to go for some form of power?_

 _Power is defined as a concept of having some amount and form of control over someone and something._

 _The reason why it is so addictive, why your blood sings for the sweet rush of adrenaline that will give you wings and the powers of Death himself, is that the power you feel is immense to the point that you feel a rival to God Almighty._

 _And why shouldn't you? God takes billions of lives annually. The power he possesses must be to much for mortal men to bear, but we must still try to get to His level of omnipotence because we are built in His image, are we not?_

 _Murder is the most addictive drug that unites all killers under its banner of malevolence._

 _It is an inevitability just as much as natural death is._

 _As long as there are humans, there will always be murderers._

* * *

To Jack's dismay, and to everyone waiting to board flight 768's dismay as well, the flight was delayed until the next day due to a technical issue.

Sean McLoughlin had woken up in the morning in his bed, thankfully, and brewed coffee.

He checked everywhere once again; nothing was missing from any rooms.

He looked at his schedule, satisfied that nothing had happened, and saw nothing, except for the appointment with Dr. O'Connor.

He took a swig of coffee, and lazily eyed his clock. "Feck!" he squawked, instinctively throwing his mug at the sink. It shattered, glass shards flying and coffee splattering against cupboards.

He fled the room, robe billowing behind him as he screamed a constant stream of "shitshitshit".

He yanked clothes off, then on again and tugged a comb haphazardly through his messy dyed green hair.

"Eh'm late!" he yelled, rushing around. He'd slept in, too much.

The statement aloud did nothing but grate his already-fried nerves.

He shoved his feet into some Converse, pulled a beanie down over his hair, which a comb hadn't helped.

He snatched keys, grimaced at the coffee mess, and flew out the door to his car.

He drove like a madman, maniacal and furious. Traffic parted like the Red Sea for the Irishman on a warpath.

That wasn't a usual thing, of course, but Jack bribed them with paying for beer at a certain pub at a certain time, shouting out his window to those who'd listen.

As expected, the Irish drivers fed into the stereotype of their beloved country and let him pass.

He made it, about five minutes late to the appointment. He leapt from his car, angling his arm behind his back to lock his ride.

He charged across the lawn, and saw her just sitting down in the grass with a fabric bag, likely containing food.

His shoes were grass-stained long before he reached her.

Séaghda looked up at him, mild surprise and amusement evident on her face. "Did you run?"

Jack looked down at himself. A dark patch of sweat began just below his collarbone, soaking the area of his grey shirt above the crevice between his pecs. He laughed a bit at himself. "Ha ha, uh, I drove here, but yeh, I was running for awhile."

"Alright, well, have a seat, won't you?"

Sean appreciated the fact that she'd brought a blanket to cover the dew-speckled grass.

He didn't want a grass-speckled ass.

"So, Sean, start at the beginning, please," she requested as he seated himself cross-legged on the checkered blanket.

He sucked in a deep breath, filling his powerful lungs, and exhaled slowly. "Meh dog Gizmo died just recently. I started getting headaches, which got worse over time. Just the other day I blacked out for a while. I found out afterwards that stuff was missin' from meh house. Alcohol, bandages, matches, and a needle and thread. Not so bad by themselves, right? But together they're kinda weird."

Sé had brought a notebook and pencil, and scribbled down some things. "Have you ever had anything like this happen before?"

"Nope. What'cha writin'?" Sean asked, curious.

She looked up and smiled. "Oh, things I want to remember. You can take a look, if you like."

Jack felt safe from judgement all of a sudden; he felt relieved. He looked.

She was right, of course. It was only a thing that said 'dog died' and 'headaches and blackout'.

"I can't diagnose you as of yet, but what are you worried about?" she asked, reaching in the bag, grabbing a sandwich and tossing it to him.

He snatched it and eyed it. "What kind es thes?"

"Calm down, Sean, you can switch it if you don't like it. It's turkey." She grinned roguishly.

"I wouldn't dare teh stoop so low as teh dislike yer food. I shan't complain."

* * *

As Sean drove again after meeting Sé, and kept his promise to the drivers he'd yelled at before who'd listened.

The bar was raucous, a cacophony of drunk roaring and merriment.

He drove home without having drank so he wouldn't crash and wouldn't get a full-blown headache again, and went down the road, more slowly this time.

He felt better, but he knew that the feeling would vanish at home. He hated being alone.

The car snaked up the driveway, and Jack rose from the driver's seat, locked his car, and stood before the front door for about five minutes.

Finally, he opened the door, and stepped in.

It was dark and foreboding in his house, and he felt a pang of loneliness. He set his keys down, and trudged to the kitchen.

As soon as he opened the door to the kitchen, he saw a broad-shouldered man standing at the sink in a black tee shirt.

It was as if a switch flipped in Sean, and he walked closer, and he was vaguely aware of not controlling his legs.

The man turned, and Jack registered that it was Mark just before his limp body collided with the floor tiles.

* * *

She pumped her legs as hard as she could, trying to rid herself of her pursuers.

She also knew that they'd catch her, but she had to try.

She had to get away.

Her hair whipped in her face and streamed behind her, and her legs burned.

She was so tired.

Her heart was so, so loud, heartbeat quick as a mouse's.

 _Don't look back._

Tears stung her cheeks, breath coming out in clouds.

Trees flew past her.

They were gaining on her.

"Please, stop!" she cried out, the need to breathe almost cutting her off.

It was getting hard to breathe.

However, her pursuers weren't getting tired.

They did not cry or scream.

And they did not fall.

She tripped and landed hard on her palms and kneecaps, gasping and sobbing.

She tried to get back up, but her untrustworthy exhausted legs, feeble as a newborn foal's, collapsed beneath her.

Her captors decided to honor her persistence and will to live.

They adorned her with flowers, and put her heart in her hands.


End file.
